Settling
by Jackie Ryans
Summary: Draco and his family must rebuild after not just one wizarding war, but two. Note: this is a rewrite, but you don't need to read the original to understand it.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, lovelies, first chapter's rather short, but I hope to see you around for chapter two. Comments and constructive criticism are welcome! So sorry to everyone who's subscribed to author alert and got several emails for this story, the site's been giving me difficulties uploading.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

Settling, chapter one  
The clouds hang low in the sky, a muted grey indicative of an approaching rain shower. There, in a city where clouds and buildings nearly touch, the iron and steel stab at the warning of raindrops, all of this highly noted by those below, although it would not usually be.  
In nearly any other place in the world, the tops of buildings and their beauty is unimportant and unnoticed to those meandering below them, but in this city, in New York City, there travel millions whose only purpose is to be awed by these magnificent works of art, these steel sculptures that act as homes and offices and markers of the greatness of mankind.  
And then there are natives, those who slowly become ignorant of this beauty, those who see the horrors of what lays below it. Dirt, litter, crime, homelessness. And those natives pass by it all, numb to the damage it all has.  
They pass, in particular, a young woman, still called a girl by some. She is beautiful, but that is hidden as she curls into herself, clutching at the oversized jacket she wears as a blanket. Her hair is blond, but so covered in dirt and grime, that this is not apparent. Next to her, a larger figure also lies, but he is still.  
She is restless, because she is lying on the side of a road, in the middle of New York City, perceived as nothing and no one by almost everyone who passes her. Her partner is still unmoving, and she cares, but not as much as she should, not as much as she once did. She is truly at rock bottom.  
And then, she is noticed. Not for her actions, but for the action of another, a creature not normally seen in the city, especially not at that time of day. An owl, large and a deep, dark brown, swoops down, attracting the looks of many a passerby. It lands, claws gripping into her blanket and pinching her flesh beneath, and she looks up slowly, questioning the bird. On his leg rests a parchment, neatly tied, and she furrows her brow.  
Slow and hesitant, she reaches up, and pulls the paper from the birds leg. With a click of his beak, he unfurls his large wings and sets off again, receiving stares and pointed fingers from those around the woman. Their shock distracts them from her and her paper, as she unwraps the little slip and reads it.  
Her eyes widen as she takes in the words, written in a rushed script. She looks quickly to the figure at her side, and her eyes are caring and hesitant. She looks once more to the letter, then stands, allowing the jacket to fall to the ground. She walks away quickly, to the alley just feet from them, and stands behind a large, rusting dumpster, unnoticed by the public once again.  
She looks over, gives one last caring look to that still man lying there, and abandons him, disappearing with a loud crack.  
When she finds she can breathe again, and her feet are secure on the ground, she looks around the room she has landed in, only taking a moment for her sad nostalgia. Then, nearly jogging, she rushes to the ensuite bathroom of the fine apartment's bedroom she has traveled to, and strips down, turning on the shower.  
As she washes, she sees the porcelain of the shower beneath her go brown with the dirt that slides off her body with the soap and water. Earth and sweet dirt and the filth of the city falls from her skin and hair as she cleans quickly, but she is not disturbed, now used to such conditions.  
The washing ends after only a few minutes, and she steps out soaking, grabs a soft towel, and rushes around the apartment, clutching a small bag that was previously hidden in the folds of her clothing. It becomes apparent that she is gifted at magic: she snatches things from drawers and shelves, shoving them into the bag, and it all fits easily.  
But the room is peculiar. Finely furbished, clearly for the rich, no magic is visible, the pictures on the shelves unmoving. The room is still, and a light layer of dust covers everything, as though life was void of the place for awhile.  
Voices come from the other side of the door, sweet and casual. She looks up from her packing, and reaches into the white dresser, pulling out some clothing and stumbling into it. She stands, turns, and stares at the window a moment, from where one can see the beauty of the New York City skyline.  
She fully realizes what she is about to do, and takes a deep breath, absorbing the sight of the city. Saying goodbye. The voices are heard again, and she turns and vanishes with another crack, Apparating once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here we are, Settling, chapter two. Comments and constructive criticism are appreciated. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

Settling, chapter two

On the other side of the world, building are still tall and beautiful, and people still admire them, as people do in these special places where buildings and their looks are actually deemed important. The weather of this far-off, gorgeous place, is the same as New York City; unusually cold for August, overcast, and threatening rain.

And while people still roam the city, in awe over its looks and culture, they fail to notice the little things. These little things differ from place to place, though, as in New York, they don't see the dirt and the homeless, but here in London, they don't see moving telephone booths, and thin wooden sticks poking out of sleeves, and a scared young man in an expensive black cloak.

This scared young man in this expensive black cloak found himself being rushed into a door that many other people ignored that afternoon. And after being rushed through that door, he is rushed into a lift, then rushed into a large room, then rushed into a seat. And then all he can do is wait. Have a look around, and have an agonizingly long wait.

The look around is at least entertaining, the scenery certainly unique. He sees, just for a moment, his parents, pale and frightened, being led away through a side door of the large, circular room, which is filled with chairs and people. Once his parents quickly vanish, he examines those in the room, keeping his face void of emotion as he analyzes them, some in flowing black robes, some in suits and uniforms.

In the corner of his eye, he spots an odd group out, dressed in more casual clothing, and some sporting ginger hair that makes them noticeable for miles. He turns his face away from them, not wanting them to glance at him, fear of their troubled past and his actions in his school and in the war convincing him that nothing good could come from interaction with them.

The room, cool, large, and circular, buzzes for several minutes more, many people moving to find seats or discuss the trial about to begin. The room, of course, is in the lower levels of the newly refurbished Ministry of Magic, and it is the location of the trial of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

The buzzing suddenly stops, and everyone is settled in their chairs, and only one man is standing, the Minister of Magic himself, Kingsley Shacklebolt. He makes most of the room feel comfortable, protected, yet the scared young boy, whose parents' fate is about to be decided, is subtly hiding his terror. The Minister, standing behind a large table where the members of Wizengamot sit, speaks, voice booming.

"Bring in the accused."

In shuffle Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, a government representative walking behind them, guiding them to their chairs in the center of the room. They are wealthy, and therefore experience the gentleness that all governments give to their wealthy, and do not wear handcuffs. In fact, they had just spent several hours at home, in a barely recovered manor, with their only child.

This does not mean they are calm or safe. Both are pale, faces hallow, eyes bloodshot. They tremble with every touch, walk as if they have no strength, wither as though they are leaves in the wind. Lucius is the worse of the two, already certain of a fate he'd discussed with his family prior to arriving at the court, a fate that he would die in Azkaban.

All eyes fall upon them as they sit. The couple stares up, eyes pleading, at the great Minister.

"The accused, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, are charged with conspiring with Lord Voldemort-" there comes a small shutter from the crowd, but Shacklebolt does not hesitate. "crimes against humanity, and endangerment of their son, Draco Malfoy."

Draco looks to his lap as a roomful of eyes rest on him. It would be an atrocious lie to say his parents never put him in harm's way when he was a minor. Every word, every action, put him on a path that forced him to make many decisions he was too young to make.

"You have both pleaded guilty. You have both negotiated your sentences. This trial will determine the punishment you will bare for your deeds." Shacklebolt booms again. "I call forth our witness." he sits.

Across the room, one of the odd group out gets to his feet, and shock, horror, and slight malice move through Draco. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, is walking to the middle of the room to speak on behalf of his parents. Draco feels angered, at everything, for his once inferior enemy must now save their sorry arses, just because he thinks it's his duty. At this moment, he also feels quite grateful, but he pushes that feeling down, ashamed of it.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman." Harry says loudly, all eyes drawn on him, in awe, honored by and happy for his very presence. He is loved by all wizards, save the three blondes in the room, two of which are swallowing looks of contempt, one of which shows her indifference.

"The woman sitting in front of me is the mother of one of my former classmates." neither attempted to make eye contact with the other. "And although he was a bit pompous-" Draco bites his tongue, as disgust nearly overwhelms him. "he's a good man, and she's done well as a mother. More than that, she's done well as a human being. She's strong, and brave, and honorable."

The crowd buzzes, curious and slightly confused. "You see, when I faced Voldemort-" again, a shutter. "-in the Forbidden Forest, he tried to kill me, and was afraid he didn't succeed. He sent Narcissa forward to see if I was alive, and just faking I was dead. I was breathing, but she lied to him." he stares down the wizards, fire in his eyes. "She lied to Voldemort, right to his face, just to save me. She's a war hero."

Murmurs, gasps. Can this be true? They've doubted the boy before, but was he not always right?

"Mr. Potter." A man stands, voicing opinion in a light accent Draco can't put his finger on, possibly Eastern European. "How can we be certain dis is true? Maybe you're just protecting some seemingly nice woman, a mother of your peer. No one's aware of what happened in Forbidden Forest, for all we know you could just be spewing lies!"

The murmurs are louder than they've been that day, and Shacklebolt gives them all a warning look. Potter takes a moment to compose himself, then speaks again.

"The Death Eaters that survived knew. And if you don't trust them, sir, we can owl Rubeus Hagrid, he was there as well. Besides, sir-" he curls his right fist. "I must not tell lies."

The man, who is thin and lanky with a pencil mustache, nods with respect, and sits down. Draco mentally cheers for a moment, then recalls who he's cheering for. Potter may be trying to save his mother, but this does not make him a friend.

"I thank you for your attention, and ask that you please consider treating this family with the kindness and respect we all deserve in these hard times." For one second, he and Draco look directly into each other's eyes. Harry gives him a surprisingly firm look of respect, which Draco returns with one of shock and slight confusion. As Harry moves to sit, Draco mentally scolds himself for letting his mask slip, for looking so uncouth before his former foe.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter." Shacklebolt booms. "We will begin the deliberation. Members of Wizengamot, away with me, to the judge's chamber."

The dozen men seated at the long table with Shacklebolt stand, and file out behind him to a large oak door at the back of the room, readying themselves to make their decision.

Draco peers around the room once more. Potter and friends are huddled together, whispering quickly and nervously, attempting to predict the outcome of the trial. From his seat, Draco can see Potter, arm wrapped around the waist of the girl he often called the "Weaslette." Her redheaded brother sits across from them, not minding as the Slytherin's former enemy, Hermione Granger, grips his hand tightly.

He hates seeing her pity. Pitying him, Draco Malfoy, the boy who almost owned Hogwarts so very long ago. Pitying him, a pureblood...no. He does not think this way anymore. His loyalty in the war was to his family, for after the Dark Lord's crusades, he saw enough of their muggle born blood to know it is as clean as his own.

He looks to his parents. His father would scream if he saw a mudblood pity him as she did, but he could not pay attention to her feelings, only staring at the empty table before him where the judges had sat. His wife makes no attempt to console him, does not touch his hand, does not weep for his already known fate. She speaks to the representative, in a sad, low voice. She turns and looks to her son in longing, and they only nod to each other. There is no emotion on Draco Malfoy's face.

The twelve men return. They file in slowly, avoiding all eye contact as they take their seats once more. Minister Shacklebolt enters last, and takes his place at the middle of the table.

"The accused are guilty of conspiring with a dark wizard against the government, several crimes against humanity, and endangerment of a minor." Shacklebolt reminds them. Draco stares determinately at his parents, feeling the eyes of several of Potter's brood resting upon him.

"Lucius Malfoy, given your prior actions and arrests, the council feels we have no choice on this matter. You will serve life in Azkaban." Shacklebolt is solemn, never enjoying the task of telling some poor soul that they must go to that island, that dark and dreary prison.

It is a surprise to no one, but Draco still tastes bitter disappointment. Now he could only wait for his father's slow and inevitable death. Lucius lowers his head, eyes glazed, but he would not cry in front of the council, he could not. As destroyed as his reputation was in those past few years, he would not shed tears. Narcissa is motionless.

"Narcissa Malfoy, without you, Harry Potter would've died in the Forbidden Forest." He booms again, and she looks hopeful for the first time. "But your crimes cannot be ignored. Therefore, you will serve one year in Azkaban, and four years afterward in house arrest, within the boundaries of the Malfoy Manor."

Her whole body untenses with relief, and Draco's, on a lesser note, does the same. He is grateful, for one moment, of everything and everyone, including Potter and Granger and her pity. For one moment, he is uncomposed, sighing his relief and giving a weak smile. Her sentence is tame, and survivable. Narcissa Malfoy will live.

Then he remembers again, the sentence of his father, the hardship in his future, the loneliness that would come without his parents. He never really loves his father, feels only gratitude and respect, but there is that bond, that bond between father and son, that bond that is breaking now. His relief is nearly vanished.

The representative stands, and the couple gets to their feet as well, to be sent to Azkaban immediately. Realizing this, Draco is quick on his feet, rushing to the center of the room, where his parents are already being led away. He stops in front of his mother, but a wizard is already dragging her away by the arm.

"Mother." He says, voice like a child's.

"Draco, darling." She nearly coos as she is lead away, her former elegance shining through the sad figure she has become. "Everything's going to be alright. Everything's worked out for you."

And she leaves him standing there, alone and confused. Her husband is already gone. Draco does not remember saying goodbye.

The crowd is already beginning to disperse, and after a minute of standing alone, Draco notices the room is over half empty. He wipes the look of sadness and confusion off his face, going from looking like a lost child to a cold adult. Face like stone, he leaves the room, and is walking briskly down the hall when a voice calls him back.

"Malfoy!" He turns to see Potter and his family rushing over to him. He gives them all a once over; Arthur, the odd man obsessed with muggles, Percy, whom he only remembers as a prefect, Ron, looking displeased to be there, Hermione, worry plastered on her face, Ginny, determined, and Potter, the same. They all stop before him.

"Potter." He says it different than he used to. It was once a word spat out, stomped on. It once sounded like an insult. Now, however, it is just another word, sounding even more gentle than average words once did, as the bark has been taken from Draco's voice.

"Malfoy, I'm sorry. I did everything I could." And they all give him looks of pity that sour him.

"I don't need your guilt and pity, Potter." The old, familiar tone has returned. "I can handle myself just fine."

"We're just trying to help, Draco." Arthur says, and he looks too old and too tired. "You've lost a lot."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" There is fire in his eyes, his voice is slightly louder. "Just because I wasn't on the winning side-"

"You mean the right side?" Ron interrupts, and Draco stares darkly.

"You little weasel. Do you actually think you're better than me?" His voice is low and threatening, and those who are leaving the courtroom are stopping or slowing, giving each other worried glances.

"It doesn't matter. The side you were on doesn't matter now." Hermione quickly says, seeing the tension build between her boyfriend and her former enemy. "What Arthur meant is that your parents were just sent to Azkaban, and- we're here to help if you need us, Mal- Draco."

"Help? From you? Now that's a laugh." Draco responds, something gleeful in his voice, the old mirth he once had from tormenting the golden trio.

"Malfoy." Potter says again, and the smirk fades from Draco's face. "What's done is done. We're here now, if you need us."

"Whatever." He mutters, and turns, bowing his head, and walks off. He stands with silent strangers in the golden lift, and he fights to keep his mind blank. He is furious, and guilty, and upset, and afraid. His parents are gone, and his enemies pity him, and offer him help. Were they enemies now? He no longer worked under the Dark Lord, but that did not make them instant friends, did not make the years of teasing and fighting nonexistent.

The lift reaches the Atrium, and all the wizards depart, Draco stepping into a fireplace and flooing home, to the damaged manor. He steps out of his own dark marble fireplace, and sighs in the darkness.

He makes to move to the staircase, so he can retire to his bedroom, but moves only one foot when he hears it. A rustling in the room, a flutter of cloth and a footstep. He freezes and squints his eyes, attentive.

He is in the dark. And he is afraid.

But he is not alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**So here's chapter three.** **Usual disclaimer, I don't own Harry Potter, only the characters you won't recognize. Comments and Constructive Criticism are appreciated.**_  
_

* * *

_He makes to move to the staircase, so he can retire to his bedroom, but moves only one foot when he hears it. A rustling in the room, a flutter of cloth and a footstep. He freezes and squints his eyes, attentive._

_He is in the dark. And he is afraid._

_But he is not alone._

He hears movement once again, and sees a figure. Panic shoots through him, and he fumbles as he reaches for his wand, considering what could be in the darkness with him. His mind races as he thinks of the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters, and every enemy he and his parents have ever made.

His wand is out, his hand steady, and he is ready to attack when the figure steps out of the shadows. She stands with her hands in the air, nervous at the provoking look on his face, eyes staring at his wand.

"Draco, it's okay, it's safe." Her voice is steady, fear is absent.

His eyes widen as he takes her in, recalling an old memory to see if she matches up to it. Long, light blonde hair, pale skin, blue-grey eyes that are not nearly as steely as the other Malfoys'.

"Are you...?" He cannot finish his question, far too taken aback by her appearance. If this is the girl he thinks she is, then he hasn't seen her since he was ten years old.

"Lyra." She answers, and her voice is softer, caring. Already, she has a protective duty towards him, speaks to him as if he is too fragile for louder volumes.

Draco, reminded of all he has been through, all the games and deception, is wary. "When we were five, we took a walk through the garden. We saw something run out from the lilac bush. What was it?" His voice is defensive, he is protecting himself incase his lovely visitor turns out to be a fraud.

She hesitates for a moment. "A grey cat. A stray."

He lowers his wand. "It is you." He says, incredulous. He hears his own voice, and hardens. "What are you doing here?"

"I got a letter from Aunt Narcissa." She explains as she lowers her hands, calmer now that his wand is not pointed at her. "She wants me to watch over you, protect you. Which I will do, Draco, I promise."

"But-" He interrupts, trying to make sense of what's going on.

"Whether you like it or not." She adds firmly, but it is clear from the shine in her eyes that she cares a great deal for his safety.

"Fine." Draco says curtly, after a moment's silence. "The house elf will show you to your quarters. If you don't mind, I'm exhausted, and I'd like to go to bed. Goodnight." And he turns and bounds up the stairs, wanting nothing but the peace of mind that comes with sleep.

He is thankful for her presence as he changes for bed, but does not show it. It is rare that he ever show his true feelings, so now, even when alone, he does not have a relieved smile because of her, nor does he wear a frown or shed tears for his parents, who are being carted off to Azkaban as he strips.

He realizes this must be what his mother meant by everything being taken care of. Figures, it would be her that would worry about him enough to get him a babysitter while she is in jail. He crawls into his bed, a four poster with expensive silk sheets that match his pajamas, and refuses to think of it any longer. It was a long, trying day for him, and the stubborn young boy is determined not to be reminded of his jailed parents, or his encounter with Potter in the hall after the trial.

It begins to rain outside, and Draco, more exhausted than he thought he was, quickly dozes off into a dreamless sleep, eyelids heavy.

Morning comes too quickly. The light rain that had began before Draco fell asleep has vanished, and now the Sun is shining in a cloudless sky, a small amount of light coming in through Draco's thick black curtains. He awakens early, as he usually does. Since he was a child, his mother had always woken him early, chiding him with _Manners matter, Draco,_ and _Malfoys are never such slobs, Draco_.

Draco has only a second to enjoy the loveliness of his rest, and the wonderful weather outside, when of course he remembers all that has happened; his parents are in Azkaban, his enemies pity him, his cousin is staying with and protecting him. He is only slightly bitter that his family does not think he can handle himself, but mostly, and he would never admit it aloud, quite overjoyed to have her back. They were once quite close, and now he has a chance to bond with her once again.

He washes up quickly, and dresses in the usual dark trousers and black long-sleeved shirt, the cool stone of the mansion keeping out the heat of August. Walking down the stairs, back straight and chin up, just as Malfoys should walk, he calls his house elf.

"Flicker! Have you started breakfast?" Standing at the bottom of the stairs, he sees a small house elf wearing an old pink pillow case rush over.

"Yes Master, Flicker has prepared eggs and toast and-"

"Make sure you make a big meal, Flicker. We've got our company today." Draco cuts the house elf off, not wanting to hear her ramblings. She nods quickly.

"Yes Master, Miss Lyra will be down soon, she's in the bath." Flicker scurries away, into the kitchen to prepare the meal.

Draco watches her run away, then walks to the den, where he saw Lyra the previous night. Through the large windows, the Sun is beaming, and somewhere the birds are chirping, but Draco is quickly bored by this, and leaves the den, passes the stairs, crosses through the large dining room, and stops at the kitchen doorway, watching the house elf fumble around with the food. He is amused by her for awhile, always enjoying watching others do things for him, then sits at the large oak table as Flicker lays the platters on it. He has already poured himself tea and taken some fruit when Lyra descends on the stairs.

In the light, he can have a good look at her. Oh, how long it has been since he has seen his American cousin. Their fathers are brothers, and not very close, especially since one married an American, and decided to live with her in New York. Lyra has all her father's looks, with the same platinum hair, half dried with a towel, the same paleness, although Draco can see light pink and a few freckles on her cheeks and nose, undoubtedly from too much time in the Sun. She is slightly more wide and curvy than most British girls, and stands almost at his height. Her eyes are slightly more blue than his, but it is easy to tell they are related, to a point that most would automatically assume them to be siblings.

"Have a seat." He points to a chair across the table, and she takes it, watching Flicker as she races over to throw a cloth napkin across her lap, and serve her tea.

"No thank you." She says to the elf, also knowing of the Malfoy manners, but never having a servant, so not treating her with the usual Malfoy disrespect. The elf bows and rushes away once more as Lyra scoops some eggs from a nearby dish onto her own.

Both keep their faces neutral, and are silent for a few moments as they dine on rich food. Finally, Draco speaks.

"So, how are things in America?" He asks politely.

"Fine." She says in a way that it sounds like she's really saying _Awful, please drop the subject._

Draco hears that tone, but is curious and pushes further. "I heard you lot had a war. Everything alright?"

She sets down her fork and finishes chewing, looking at her plate as he stares at her. "You don't need more talk of war, Draco." She stands, places her napkin on the table, and walks back up the stairs, no doubt back to her quarters.

He sighs, knowing he should have expected that. Of course a veteran would not want to discuss her battles. He didn't even want to discuss his. He decides not to bring it up again, not wanting her to distance herself from him, when they are already so far apart after eight long years without speaking.

For the next few days, there is a silence in the home. They do not speak, do not interact save for eating meals in the dining room together. It is not a tense or awkward silence, however, it is comfortable. Without words, Draco tells his cousin that _yes, I trust you to be here_, as he accepts the fate of his parents. She is guarding and trusting in return, taking her time to explore the manor and evaluate the place.

They do not need to speak. They do not need to make idle chat or have serious talks, not now. They both need to recover, as one thinks of war and jail cells, and the other thinks of a different war, and a figure on the sidewalk.

It is three days after their first breakfast when they sit in the dining room, this time for a smaller meal. They are silent as usual, the only sound being Draco's spoon clinking against his mug as he stirs his tea. This sound is interrupted by the far louder, and far less dislikable noise of an owl swooping in through an open window, dropping an envelope onto the table just inches from Draco's plate. The tawny owl swoops out once again, leaving them alone to stare at what he has brought them.

"We don't use owls in America, you know." Lyra comments as Draco reaches for the envelope. "Too rare and too noticeable. Everyone was staring at me when I got Aunt Narcissa's letter, it was broad daylight in New York."

"Well we don't live so close to the muggles here." Draco notes as he tears open the letter with the familiar Hogwarts seal. He shutters slightly when he realizes this is the last Hogwarts letter he will ever open. "Letter from Hogwarts, our list of supplies."

She stares at him, confused. "But we're in the same year, and my studies are over." Lyra was born in mid July, and he in early June.

"Our last year didn't really go according to plan." He says, scanning the letter, but not wanting to speak more of the year. His parents tried to keep him in school as much as possible, but he was brought out often to have meetings with them and the Dark Lord. In school he was safe, Snape and his blood status protecting him.

"No Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, finally must've run out of people brave enough to take the job." He mused, then set the letter down. "Well anyway, we need some supplies for my final year."

"How about Diagon Alley? I've never been there, and I heard it's great." Lyra suggested, looking both excited to go but worried at the same time. Draco ignores this, wanting to get his supplies without a fuss.

"Alright, get dressed, we'll go today." Draco says, wiping his mouth with his napkin and setting it on the table.

Although small, Lyra gives him the first smile he'd seen on her in almost a decade. "Be right back, then." she says with a flourish, then goes upstairs to change from her cotton pajama pants and oversized shirt.

Draco follows, going into his own room to take a pouch of money from his dresser and make sure he was ready. He meets her after several minutes in the den, in front of the fire place.

"Ready?" He asks, and she nods. "Follow me."

He grabs a pinch of the purple dust resting in the dish on the mantle, and walks into the large marble fireplace. He throws it down. "Diagon Alley!"


	4. Chapter 4

_"Ready?" He asks, and she nods. "Follow me."_

_He grabs a pinch of the purple dust resting in the dish on the mantle, and walks into the large marble fireplace. He throws it down. "Diagon Alley!"_

The wonderful thing about humanity is its ability to recover. Pain and weakness happen, and lives are changed or destroyed, but humanity can mend itself. Like a bone, all that is needed is a steady support, some time and patience, and love. And like a bone, humanity recovers, but no longer looks or feels the same. Damage has been done. There is no going back to what once was.

Change can be positive, and it can be negative, and it can be neither. The reparations made to Diagon Alley following the war are certainly an improvement from the state of the place during Voldemort's hold over the wizards, but overall the difference between the shopping area from before his reign and after is minimal. Really looking, changes are obvious, but they fall into the category of being neither positive nor negative, which, when thought of, can either be troubling or a gift, depending upon the philosophies of the thinker.

And this is what Draco Malfoy thinks of as he taps the bricks in the wall behind the Leaky Cauldron, Lyra standing a foot behind him. He thinks of how much the life of the average wizard has changed, how much his own life has changed. And as the bricks move to reveal the cobblestone road and little businesses, he thinks of the changes made to Diagon Alley. What was once a dark, frightened place was now bustling as it did before the terrors of war.

He walks briskly, chin up, face blank, as is proper for a Malfoy. He sees people shopping, bargaining, smiling. Everyone is rebuilding, everyone is recovering. Their faces are shining and their laughs are vibrant, ringing out into the warm air. The sun is bright, and there is barely a cloud in the sky, but he ignores all of this, trying to shut out old pains and memories, and therefore not enjoying the happiness of others.

Lyra, however, as she walks behind him, is significantly slower, for good reason. Never having been there, she is hypnotized by wizards trading hooves and herbs she has never seen, fascinated peering into the Magical Menagerie, and seeing many wide eyes peering back.

As she rushes to catch up to him, Lyra turns and sees a small wooden stand, laden with thick stacks of newspapers. A wizard stands behind these stacks, rattling off news and prices, as he grabs change and hands people their Daily Prophet. Interested, she tugs Draco's arm to stop him.

"Draco, buy me a paper?"

He shakes his head. "We've got things to do."

She persists. "Please? I really want to see what's going on here."

"Why is our news so important to you? You're not even from here." He is annoyed now, not wanting to have a paper near him. He does not wish to see anything about the war, the Death Eaters, every other awful thing that had once been a part of his life.

"Exactly. I should know something about the country I'm living in." Lyra says, not understanding his feelings towards the subject, for if she did she would let it alone.

"Well the answer's no. Come on, we have to go to the bank, do you want your money or not?" He turns and walks away once again, and she follows.

Her curiosity is peaked and she is delighted, but Draco is far from pleased. Everything is a reminder of how things once were, how dark times used to be. They pass Ollivander's, and as he peeks inside, he sees a little boy destroying a vase with his ill-chosen wand, while Ollivander, old and tired, simply smiles and hands him another. Draco is reminded of the time Ollivander was a prisoner in his home, and shudders before pushing the thought away.

They do not stop walking until they reach the doors of Gringotts, where Lyra pauses to quickly read the warning engraved into them. Draco moves over to the nearest goblin, and Lyra catches up once more.

"But didn't Harry P-"

"Hush." He silences her, needing to speak with the goblin. Potter's dragon story had obviously reached America when they all discovered what he had done. That was a dark day in the Malfoy household.

"The Malfoy Vault." He flatly addresses the goblin, and he nods, getting up to fetch another who would bring them down to lowest layers of the bank. Lyra stares at him as he leaves, a scholar's look on her face, keen and interested to learn.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Draco says to her under his breath, teeth barred.

"Sorry, I've just never seen one in real life. We don't have magical creatures in America." Lyra apologizes, truly sorry to irritate him, but distracted by the goblins around her.

The goblin returns with another, who motions them over with a wave of his large, wrinkled hand. They walk behind him, Lyra staring at him all the way, and find themselves in what looks like a mining cart a minute later. They descend at a rapid pace, but this does not keep Lyra from studying the foreign creature.

"Whaddya lookin' at?" He finally says to her, in a gravelly voice. She is taken aback, but responds.

"So sorry, but I'm an American, and I've never seen a goblin. Tell me, is what I've heard on your superior metallurgy true?" She leans forward, in want of hearing the goblin's knowledge, wobbling sideways slightly as the cart takes a turn, spiraling deeper down into the bank.

"Yup, our metallurgy is superb, and you wizards have never been able to copy it." The goblin swells with pride.

"And why is that?"

"Lyra." Draco casts her a warning look. His mother had always insisted he never talk to the goblins, for they are clever and cantankerous creatures with a severe dislike for wizards, and her chatting put him on edge.

"I'm merely curious, Draco." Lyra says, ignoring his gaze, still fixed on the goblin. He gives her a twisted smile as light flashes on all their faces, from a nearby vault that another family is opening.

"You lot might've got wands and spells and can go wherever you like whenever you like, but you ain't connected to the dirt like we are. You can't get a feel for the metal. Besides, you haven't been around long enough to practice."

"So it would be foolish for a witch or wizard to try to achieve your results." Lyra states, not really a question, and the cart slows to a stop. The goblin nods, then climbs out of the cart, grabbing the huge lantern that was resting beside him. He switches it on, and walks over to the Malfoy vault. Draco notices the dragon that had once guarded the area is gone, but knows why and says nothing.

The goblin opens the vault, and Draco stands back as the large door opens. Piles of money fill the large space, for him a normal sight. He looks to Lyra, standing on his left, and hides a small smile at the sight of her gaping mouth. She looks to him, and gives him a wide grin.

"Let's get you some money, then. It's galleons, sickles, then knuts. Seventeen sickles per galleon, twenty eight knuts per sickle." Draco tells her, then takes two bags from the goblin, and tosses one to her.

She catches it and starts filling it, large smile on her face. In the time Draco takes to fill his bag, he looks back at Lyra several times, who is smiling broadly. At times, she throws gold coins into the air, and laughs, and collects her money with a gleam in her eye, and Draco cannot help but comment.

"Greedy much?" He raises an eyebrow, but has a light tone that tells her he is fooling around.

"What do you mean?" She asks, not really paying attention, as she is looking at the inscription on the nearest galleon.

"First you question the goblin, then you roll around in your money." He responds, playful but scathing, tying his bag. She smiles faintly.

"Just seeing if it's possible. If it's stupid for a human to try and mimic a goblin's work, I won't even bother with it. If he told me to give it a shot, I would've. And you know we don't use this kind of money in America. I've never seen all our gold just stacked up like this."

She closes her bag, and they climb back into the mining cart, taking their bumpy ride back to the sunshine and cleanliness of the bank. From there, they leave to get Draco his robes at Madam Malkin's, his books at Flourish and Blotts (where Lyra, herself a lover of academics, purchases two books), and a stationary store for quills and parchment.

The last place they need to go is Quality Quiddich Supplies, which Lyra opts out of, seeing as Americans don't play the sport. Draco cannot even fathom such a thing, and leaves her to have a final look around.

Lyra, however, looks in one direction, and no other, for she knows what she wants. Looking in through the shop's window, she can see Draco busy comparing broom cleaners, and rushes over to the Daily Prophet stand. She buys a newspaper and hides it in the bag of books from Flourish and Blotts before going back to Draco, and looking around nonchalantly, feigning innocence.

"Right, I think that's it." Draco says, looking at their assorted bags full of purchases. "Let's be on our way, then."

"Yeah, I had fun today." Lyra says pleasantly, and for the first time in awhile, Draco feels a sense of what they once had. The days of comfortable silence when Lyra first arrived were kind and patient, but not what they had when they were young. They were children, and therefore loud and eager and chatty, their relationship playful and joyous, not quiet and contained.

But Draco knows he cannot get this back. Because childhood, like all great things, must end, and they are adults now. Yes, they can laugh or be noisy together, but they will never be what they once were. Draco will never regain his innocence, will never be the young boy running through the garden with his friend. This is bittersweet information, as the loss of childhood is heartbreaking, but the gaining of adulthood is yet another adventure to look forward to.

They reenter the Leaky Cauldron, and Draco steers Lyra back to the fireplace, where they floo back to the manor. Draco steps into the fireplace of his own home once again, moves out of the way so Lyra can follow, and brushes the dirt off his robes, ever so clean. His appreciation of things in their proper place has always supported an enjoyment of cleanliness. Lyra does not brush her clothes off so well, and bounds quickly up the stairs just a few moments after brushing the soot from her jeans.

"Bookworm!" Draco calls playfully after her, assuming she is running upstairs to begin reading the books she bought right away. He smiles for a moment, but that smile fades at the thought of their maturity, their adolescence. They could never be their past, only a new version of themselves. He sighs, tired, and travels up the stairs as well, going to put away his bags of books and robes.

Lyra is in her room, and is reading, but not what Draco expects her to be. She has taken the Daily Prophet from her bag of books, and unfolding it, scanning the pages. She finds something interesting on the third page, and reads the article.

_Too Many Cowards for Hogwarts?_

_by Rita Skeeter_

_Well, my dear readers, we are all aware that the post for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position has given great Hogwarts quite a bit of trouble the last few years. It's been highly rumored that You-Know-Who cursed the position when he couldn't get the job, and this seems proven time and time again as year after year, the professors don't last. Quirrell famously had said Dark Lord stuck to the back of his head, and then Lupin ended up sprouting furry ears every full moon! Not to mention the man pretending to be the insane auror Mad-Eye Moody, and the nasty business last year when the position was just 'The Dark Arts.'_

_And now, here we are in mid-August, and still no professor! I mean, it is a bit foolish, You-Know-Who is dead now, but I guess everyone's scared of some sort of revival, or even an uprising! What is this once prestigious school to do? Do you think Hogwarts is ready to reopen? And what will they do without a professor? Personally, I'm looking forward to seeing what happens to the place now._

Lyra sets down the paper, letting out the lightest breath as she studies the words. For a moment, all that can be heard is the croaking of frogs somewhere in the distance, a noise that will soon disappear with the end of their season. But one can feel it, a sort of tension in the air; a tension that follows Lyra as she washes, changes, and goes to bed. A tension that hangs over her as a cloud, buzzing in her head as she drifts off to sleep. It is the wonderful tension that comes when someone is forming a plan.


	5. Chapter 5

**Here we are, chapter five. I know it's moving a bit slow, sorry, but it'll speed up soon.**

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Settling, chapter five

The light entering the young woman's bedroom is faint in the lovely morning, suggesting that outside, the sky is slightly overcast, as is common in the United Kingdom. She notices this as she wakes up with a yawn and a long stretch, then lazily remains in her bed, listening to the little noises of the large home she is a guest in.

In another room, she can hear water being drawn, and realizes it is the sound of Draco running a bath. She has a thought, and that exciting tension surrounding her last nightfall returns. She can sense it, and throws back her duvet, rushing out of her bed. She dons a fine silk robe (of course the Malfoy family would give their house guests something so stupidly impressive) and walks over to the desk in her bedroom, dark and made of fine oak like the rest of the furniture. She pulls out a roll of parchment, an ink pot and a quill, which she hesitates over, unused to such a thing.

She needs to take a few test runs on another piece of parchment, attempting to write legibly without blotting ink everywhere. When she is satisfied with her handwriting, she takes a new piece of parchment, and writes a letter. She sits back a moment later and reads it over.

_The Malfoy Manor_

_Wiltshire, England_

_August, 1998_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Headmistress_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Hogwarts Castle, Scotland_

_Dear Headmistress McGonagall,_

_It has been brought to my attention that your prestigious school is in a bit of trouble, having no Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for the upcoming school year. Now I hate to be frank, but I believe it is necessary in these times of need. I would like to ask for an interview regarding the position, which you can firmly deny if you wish._

_I am a graduate of the Salem Witches Institute in America, and if you need any references, you may contact Headmistress Sullivan, who has all of my grades in file, and who will surely give you a personal recommendation. I do apologize for not having a résumé© put together, but America is just recovering from a very bloody war, so everything's a mess at the moment._

_I do not know whether or not the information I am about to give you would help me to get this job, but I would like you to know that, in our time of war, I am considered a war hero by most Americans, a fact which I believe is very helpful for my chances, if I do say so myself. I thank you very much for your time, and remind you that this may be your only offer before the school opens once again in about half a month- do consider your options._

_Sincerely,_

_Lyra Malfoy _

Satisfied, she folds the paper over, and gently places it into an envelope that she finds in the desk drawer. Still in her silk robe, she walks quickly down the cool hallway of the Malfoy Manor, looking for a room she had only seen once before, in her first few days of exploring Draco's home.

She has an excellent memory, and finds the room in just a few minutes, at the top of the tallest set of stairs, in the wing farthest from the main living area. She believes this to be for good reasons, as well, when she opens the door to the small room, and beholds the sight. It is the manor's owlery, where rests about ten owls of various sizes and colors, plus all their stench and droppings.

She is an American, and therefore does not use owls to send any letters, and is obviously glad for that by the look on her face. Her abhorrence for the creatures is apparent as she chooses the one nearest her, small and grey. She removes a string from the pocket of her robe and ties the letter to the owl with difficulty, making noises of annoyance as it attempts to nip at her fingers. At last, it is tied, and the American, unused to the great birds, shoos it away, then leaves, not watching the disgruntled owl fly off into the distance.

Returning to her room, she removes her robe to hang it on her chair, then spends some time in the bathroom, washing up.

As she does this, Draco is drying himself with a luxurious emerald colored towel, having just finished his bath. He dresses himself in the usual clothing he wears over the Summer break; dark trousers and a dark, short sleeve button up shirt. Of course, he was told growing up to avoid short sleeves, and only wear them on the hottest of days, but the weather in England is now nearly scorching, the month being August, always the hottest.

Upon going downstairs to the main floor, Draco discovers the casual breakfast Flicker has laid out on the table. Nodding to himself in approval, he sits down and selects some fruit for his dish, and within moments his house elf is at his side, pouring him tea.

"Flicker, tell Lyra it's time for breakfast." Draco says as he reaches for one of the scones the loyal house elf made that are resting on a decorative plate in the center of the table.

"No need." Lyra calls down from the top of the stairs. She descends with a warm smile, looking over the meal set on the table for them. "Good morning."

"Good morning." Draco replies as she sits across from him.

"It really is." She responds, eyeing the quaint meal with a fondness of such fine cuisine. "The weather is gorgeous."

"I disagree. It's supposed to be the warmest day of the year, a guaranteed nightmare for all those foolish enough to go outdoors." Draco sniffs as he spreads jam on his scone, not a fan of such hot weather. Lyra scoffs.

"Well I guess we're getting ourselves caught in a nightmare. After breakfast, we're going for a walk in the garden."

"Absolutely not." Draco points his fork at her, and she suppresses a laugh.

"Come on, afraid of a little dirt? Just one walk, Draco, then you can go back to your room and be a total hermit." She teases, giving him a small smile as she digs back into her food.

"I've never met a hermit who lived in a manor." Draco mumbles, but has to hide a little smile as he goes back to his scone. There is an odd feeling deep in him, almost as though his stomach had jumped. And as they finished their light breakfast, Draco has to deny to himself, although he does so very poorly, that he is actually excited.

When they stand and Flicker rushes in to collect their plates, the blondes walk across the manor to the back door, slipping out into the sun, which by now has dissipated all cloud coverage. It is indeed the hottest day of the year, and Draco can already feel himself growing warm, what with his trousers and dark shirt. Lyra, who adorns a light top and a silk skirt, feels fine with the weather, and begins to walk along the cobblestone path, unfazed. For a moment, there is silence.

"These gardens used to be beautiful." Lyra says, and they both look around at the destruction. The house had been fully restored following the Dark Lord's fall, but the garden was never repaired.

"Not so much, now." Draco notes, eyeing the many dead plants, scorch marks, and foot prints. Weeds are tangled with branches, and grass is poking out between the stones beneath their feet. The whole garden has a feel of being abandoned years ago, in ancient days, and they are just visitors, intruding on a lost time. They continue to walk.

"It's not so bad over here." Lyra points to a shadowy area that they are coming up to, where the willow trees hang heavy without a breeze to lift them. Here, the trees have acted as a shelter to the flowers beneath, and, upon moving the branches, they can see all matter of hyacinth and red port, cardamine and gillenia.

"Do you remember when the whole garden looked like this?" Draco asks her, gazing at the insects flying around the small haven of plants.

"Of course. We used to run around here all the time when we were little. Hiding in bushes, playing tag, all that." Lyra smiles faintly, and it warms Draco to think of such times. Times of youth, peace, and naivety.

"Kicking the ball around because you didn't like Quidditch." Draco says, fondness in his voice.

"And we used to play pirates." She nudges him lightly, and continues down the path.

"You remember that?" Draco asks incredulously, and shocks himself with a laugh, an actual full out laugh, one of mirth instead of darkness.

"Of course I do!" She lifts a stick from the dirt, laden with mud, and jabs in his direction, laughing.

He laughs again, which is another pleasant surprise for the lonely boy who has lost so much. Lost in a cheeriness he had not seen in so long, Draco finds another stick, heavy and knotted, and lifts it, for once not caring about the mud on his palm. He steps closer to her, and swishes the stick as if to hit her, and with a laugh she smiles and blocks it.

Then, of course, the good things end. She sees. Her laugh lessens slightly, her eyes focus on his arm, and he understands instantly. He is wearing a short sleeved shirt, and therefore, his Dark Mark is visible. It is faded now, almost like a scar, but still noticeable.

The happiness leaves him, and he slowly lowers his stick, she doing the same. For a moment, there is only an awkward silence, before he just shakes his head, and continues along the path. Lyra looks at him for a moment, just a sad gaze, before following after him.

"We did have some good times back in the day, didn't we." She says quietly, a statement, not a question.

"We did. Having adventures and spotting strays." Draco says, a small amount of glee returning to him once more. He is recalling the grey cat they saw when they were little, the grey cat he questioned Lyra about on the first night she arrived.

"Yeah, until..." She trails off, and when he looks at her, she just tilts her head. "Well."

They continue their walk, and their silence, for the second time in their lives, is painful and awkward, instead of casual and comfortable. Neither wants to talk of war, of their separation, of Narcissa and Lucius in Azkaban. Awkwardly avoiding it all is the only solution.

Draco, not wanting said awkwardness, not wanting to succumb to dark reminders, throws his arm around her shoulders, and continues to walk silently with her, both hoping the other forgets the horrors in their lives.

And then something else happens for the second time in the young girl's life, something that last happened to her just over a week ago. She hears the flapping of feathered wings, and turns, to see an owl approaching her, the small grey one she sent to Headmistress McGonagall several hours earlier. Draco releases her, and it swoops down and lands on his arm, extending its leg. She sees a small parchment tied to its leg, and takes it, unraveling the letter as the owl flies off to the owlry.

"Ms. Malfoy." She reads aloud. "Thank you for your notice. Please find the nearest fireplace and escort yourself to the castle for an interview. Do so immediately, for time is of the essence. When in the flames, please say 'Hogwarts castle, headmistress' office.' Thank you."

She smiles, and Draco gapes, then begins to laugh once more. "You didn't."

She folds the letter up, ignoring him, and he laughs harder. "You didn't!"

"I have to go, Draco, see you later." She says, amused at his reaction, then turns and walks away quickly, rushing to the fireplace in the manor.

"Do you seriously think she'll hire an eighteen year old American Malfoy?" He calls to her, laughing less now, but he is ignored, and left alone in the giant dead garden.

As Americans rarely use floo powder, Lyra is slightly shell shocked when she steps out of the fireplace, taking in the sights before her in fascination. On the walls rest many portraits, all moving, most glancing in her direction. A large desk, covered in papers and trinkets, rests before her, and as she moves towards it, she realizes the large chair behind it is empty. She walks towards the door, and looks around, wondering if she should go out and look for someone, seeing as she is alone.

"She'll be back in a minute." She hears a voice say, and turns to see a man in a portrait looking at her. "She had business with Peeves to take care of." He rolls his eyes.

"Uh, thank you." She says politely, although it is not often she speaks to paintings.

"You'll probably get the job." He says boredly, and it is evident he does not care much. "They're desperate here, no one wants the position."

"Well that's good." She says, and nods, glad for it. She wants the job to stay closer to Draco, whom she was charged with protecting.

"So you're a Malfoy. We're related, you know." The portrait says, leaning forward a bit to get a look at her.

"Are we?" She raises her eyebrows, surprised.

"Don't you recognize me? I am Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black, your direct relative!" He puffs his chest in pride of his status, both as a pureblood and as a Hogwarts Headmaster.

"Sorry, I don't know you." Lyra is apologetic, and the painted man with the black hair and pointed features frowns.

"Of course you don't. All these young students, always so self-absorbed. Where has respect for ancestors gone? Where have manners gone? When I was young-"

"That's enough, Phineas." Lyra hears a woman's voice behind her, and turns to see an older woman in sweeping black robes. "I hear enough of your complaining all day, no need for this young woman to hear it as well."

The man in the painting grumbles and walks out of the side of the frame, dejected, and Lyra stares, confused, in wonder of where he went.

"Miss Malfoy, I presume." The woman extends her hand. "Headmistress Minerva McGonagall."

"Nice to meet you." Lyra shakes her hand, and the woman inspects her with a seemingly shrewd gaze, although there is kindness behind it.

"Please, have a seat." Minerva gestures, and Lyra stands near the chair in front of the headmistress' desk, only sitting when the elder does. Her back is straight, her ankles crossed, and her hands folded neatly in her lap, bearing all the signs of a Malfoy trying to impress. It is working, too, that much is evident by the headmistress' face; Lyra, of course, notices, and this pushes her forward.

"So you're aware that we here at Hogwarts need a Defense teacher." Minerva begins.

"Yes ma'am." Her respect makes her look even better.

"Call me Minerva, please." Minerva says, giving her a warm smile, and Lyra nods. "So, tell me about yourself."

"Oh, well, I'm from New York City, I traveled down to Massachusetts every year for school, my best subjects were transfiguration, charms, and defense, and I graduated top of my class."

Minerva nods. "I don't travel much, but I have been to New York before. You're a Malfoy, so I'm assuming upper east side, correct?"

"Correct." Lyra smiles, thinking of home.

"Am I also correct in assuming you're Melius Malfoy's only daughter?"

"Yes, yes you are." Her smile fades slightly.

"Melius was always very neutral towards European affairs, despite once living here with his brother and being a student of this school." Minerva recalls the old wars.

"Is that a problem?" Lyra asks, and for the first time, she is nervous.

"No, no." Minerva quickly assures her, and the young woman lets out a huff of relief. "It's viewed as controversial by many, but I believe it better that he chose to stay neutral, rather than take the wrong side."

"Well, no matter what his views and feelings are, I am not my father." Lyra answers firmly, and Minerva nods once more.

"Miss Malfoy, I hope you don't take offense to this, but I must ask you, as we have just recently had a war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and the Malfoys-" She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, not wanting to say the unpleasant truth. "Have not had the best reputation. I guess what I'm trying to ask is, are you a pureblood?"

"Lyra, please, and of course, I understand completely. I am a pureblood, but it really doesn't matter to me. I've never believed that there's a difference between purebloods and any other kind of wizard, it's simply a ridiculous assumption that stems from foolish pride, and thoughtless prejudice." Lyra responds, and all of her words are sincere.

"Good." Minerva smiles faintly, but the look on her face is grim. "Now, Lyra, we here in the United Kingdom are all aware of the situation in America, and, of course, your role in the war. And I just want to say that I am so, so sorry." She leans forward slightly, pained with the knowledge of what happened across the ocean.

Lyra swallows, then clears her throat. "Thank you." And that, for now, is all she can say.

"Your actions in the war-" Minerva stops, then shakes slightly, not sure how to continue. "It's more than enough credibility. We would be honored to have you teaching here, every last one of us."

Lyra looks up at her, slight shock on her face, with a small smile beginning to form.

"Alright, there's a lot that needs to be done; picking textbooks, sending home letters, prepping your classroom, speaking with the teachers, sorting the curriculum, oh, you'll be staying late tonight." Minerva rushes through her list of what is needed, then stops, glancing at the young woman whose smile is growing bigger by the second.

"Lyra, welcome to Hogwarts."


	6. Chapter 6

**Alright, so, up to this point you've all had this vague feeling that something was really wrong in America, but now, with this chapter, you're starting to get the sense that something was really, really wrong. Don't worry, everything will be explained in time.**

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The day begins unusually sunny, a fact which Draco Malfoy is not partial to as he awakens, early as always, and draws his standard bath. Standard for him is luxurious for everyone else, of course, a fact which he takes slight pride in as he rests in the hot water. He enjoys his bath slightly longer than usual, which is why he is surprised when he finally arrives at the dining table at breakfast, and Lyra is absent.

He sits alone at the table, and Flicker rushes in from the kitchen as she always does, to pour his tea and put a napkin on his lap. As he stirs his tea, he finds it rather odd that Lyra still isn't present.

The first thing to give him company is not his cousin. A tawny owl, soaring in from the single open window in the kitchen, passes over the table, dropping a letter onto a plate of bangers. Then, quick as it came, it soars out again, leaving Draco once more in solitude, the company surprisingly brief.

It is easily replaced, however, as Draco picks up the letter, and Lyra descends the stairs at the same time. He looks up to greet her, and notices she seems tired, but still pretty and happy. She gives him a little smile as she sits down.

"Morning." He says to her, tearing the letter open. "I was thinking you'd never come back."

"I was pretty busy." She comments, thinking of yesterday. "She kept me until two in the morning."

"Dear student, we are pleased to inform you that we have acquired a teacher for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Listed below are the necessary textbooks for each year. If you have already gone to buy school books, you may mail order from Flourish and Blotts to be delivered to the castle. We apologize for any inconvenience, and hope to see you on the first of September." Draco reads his letter aloud, then scans the page to see what books he requires. "Good Lord, two books, what for? What daft professor would give us all this work our last year?"

Lyra raises an eyebrow.

"Oh." Draco looks up at her in realization, and she smiles a little. "So you got the job."

"Yeah, can you believe it?" She says, and the look on her face shows that she can barely believe it herself.

"Of course I can, what did you expect? For a brilliant Malfoy you can be really thick, you know." Draco says, not giving her a full compliment, but still praising her. He loves her, and he's proud of her, he just cannot get quite in the mood to say so. It feels odd to him, sharing feelings like that, being happy, being proud. When was the last time he was proud?

"Shut up." She says in response, but is playful as always. She goes quietly back to selecting some buttered toast off one of the many plates on the oak table.

"But two books, really?" He grimaces.

"You lazy bum." She shakes her head and bites into her toast without looking up at him.

"Fine. Can I at least just use yours?" Draco asks, sipping his tea.

"I don't have them on me. They're in New York, with the rest of my stuff. Might as well go back, I'm running out of clothes as it is." Lyra says, partly to herself.

"Then go back, get your things." He says off-hand, just a casual statement as he drinks his tea.

"Come with me." She says it softly, not as a demand, but not as a question.

"What?" Draco looks up from his tea in shock.

"Come with me." She repeats herself in the same tone.

"Why?" He asks loudly, still in shock.

"Why not?" She is opposite him, completely calm.

"It's New York!" Draco can barely make an argument, so shocked at the very thought of him in a city like New York.

"Exactly!" She says, voice at a normal tone once more, cheery at just the thought.

"What do you mean, exactly? It's New York, the place is crawling with muggles, all of them terribly rude-"

"I live on the upper east side, if you're worried you'll have to mingle with the horrors of the middle class." Lyra retorts, her biting tone clearly meant to insult him. The air around them is suddenly tense, but he is undeterred.

"I don't want to go to your dirty muggle haven." He responds darkly, and Lyra looks annoyed.

"Come on, it's not dirty. It's beautiful. Seriously, let's just go to Central Park, or the Empire State building, or the observation deck on top of the Rock!" Lyra looks caught between annoyance at Draco's unwillingness to go, and her own excitement to see home again.

"I will not go anywhere in that filthy, hot, stinking metal landfill with you and your loud, low class muggles!" Draco almost shouts, and Lyra instantly looks angrier than he's ever seen her. Regret immediately fills him, and he settles back on his chair, fearing she would leave. He had not shown it very well, but he does love having her around, having one last bit of family with him. He could not fathom how lonely he would be without her.

Lyra takes a deep breath, calming herself. She knows she needs to stay on good terms with Draco. She does not wish to lose him.

"Why do you keep saying that?" She mutters quietly after a moment.

"Saying what?" Draco says back quietly, and is annoyed with himself over still being able to hear anger in his voice. He does not want to treat her this way, but he cannot control his resentment.

"Muggles. What does that mean, rats or something?" Lyra looks up at him, and all malice leaves him. She looks young, innocent, and for a moment, he can forget their strife, forget what they have been through. Just her, just a nice, smart, playful girl, a small reminder of the simple child he once was, that is all it takes for him to cope.

"You don't say muggle in America?" He asks, looking tired. She shakes her head, and he sighs heavily. "People who don't have magic."

"Greens?" She asks, looking slightly confused.

"What?" He asks, staring at her.

"We call them Greens in America." Lyra explains, speaking in a more normal tone.

"Seriously? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." Draco starts to actually laugh, and Lyra holds a small smile. He shakes with laughter, and slides several inches down his seat. "Why?"

"Our ancestors called them that." She says, starting to giggle at Draco's absolute breakdown before her. "They always want something green. But I think we do, too, so it's- Draco, it's not that funny!"

She giggles harder at the sight of the red faced Malfoy across the table. After another minute, Draco takes several deep breaths to calm himself.

"I know, I know." He chokes out, still forcing down laughter. He feels a slight guilt over losing self control, but as he shifts back to sitting straight, he realizes it is just that: a slight guilt, only slight. "So. New York."

"You'll come?" Lyra asks, hope in her wide eyes.

"Only if I don't have to see any muggles." Draco responds, watching her face fall slightly.

"Okay. We won't be able to leave the apartment, but okay." Lyra nods, not as wistful and excited as she was before, but still happy to go back to New York, back to her familiar home.

"The what?" Asks Draco, and the American giggles again.

"The flat. Come on, we have things to do. Finish your sausage." She points to the dish as she stands and removes her napkin from her lap.

"The bangers?" Draco questions as she walks away.

"Oh God." Is the only thing he hears from her, and he bears a wry smile as he takes his last sip of tea.

Lyra, after retreating to her quarters for a moment to get her bag, returns to the main floor, and meets Draco in front of the fireplace, who is waiting patiently.

"Ready?" She asks, and he nods. "Follow me."

She steps into the fireplace, throws her floo powder down, and says with a smile, "860 Park Avenue, twelfth floor!"

Draco follows soon after, expecting a small, ordinary place. After all, she is an eighteen year old in a flat, and he expects their family's money to do nicely for her, but not too nicely this early in her life. Of course, expectations are so rarely reality.

He steps through a fire place, and his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. He sees Lyra brushing herself off just right of him, then looks out the window. Outside it is night, but not very dark; he sees the towering metal buildings jutting into the sky, all aglow with dots of light dancing in the windows.

"Why is it so dark?" He looks to Lyra as she crosses the room and turns on a light.

"Hush. It's three thirty in the morning." Lyra says in a whisper, and he looks around at the now illuminated room.

It is painted a light mint, the refreshing sort of color one sees in their ice cream, and the carpet is thick and brilliantly white. A large bed covered in a light blue quilt lies just beneath the window Draco was looking through earlier, and two white dressers stand on either side of it. The fireplace is white marble, and rests between two armoires. Two chairs, light yellow, and one couch, perfectly matching the quilt, sit in the middle of the room, and an ensuite bathroom is visible to Draco's left. But the centerpiece of the room is the white bookshelves that claim the entirety of one wall, covered in books of every size.

Draco moves to inspect the books on the shelves, but pauses to see Lyra walk quickly into the bathroom, bag opened. He hears her rummaging, and abandons the small library to join her.

"You knew the time." Draco figures out aloud, as he watches her quickly stuff toiletries into her little black bag.

"Hush." Is all she responds with as she takes some perfume from the drawer beneath her sink and drops it into the little purse.

"We're sneaking in, aren't we. Why?" Draco demands in a low voice.

"Never mind why, just go find your books." She answers distantly.

He returns to the bookshelves and scans the titles. Books of every subject rest there, with titles ranging from _College Algebra and Trigonometry_ to_ Moste Potente Potions._

Lyra emerges from the bathroom and rushes towards one of the dressers next to the bed, quickly opening the top drawer and sifting through the junk that lay within. She shoves two books into the bag, and Draco notices that they disappear into its confines easily.

"What did you do to that bag?" Draco asks, eyes narrow.

"Quiet." She reminds him again. "Undetectable extension charm. I'll put the bag on the bed, start stacking up books and putting them in. Yes, all of them." She cuts him off as he opens his mouth.

For the next two minutes, the room is silent, save the rustling of clothes, books, and papers. Draco has placed several piles of books into the bag when he stops at the pictures, all in neat metallic frames on the shelves.

"The pictures as well?" He says softly to Lyra, and she turns and looks at him for a moment, thinking.

"Let me look at those and decide what I'll take." She says after a moment, and stands. She approaches him and the frames, and he continues to stack up books, albeit more slowly now, eyeing his cousin and her pictures. He watches carefully as she examines two pictures, one of her and her parents, one of just her parents alone, and quickly places them in her bag.

She returns to the shelves and picks up a third picture, and he watches her whole frame visibly relax, as though all need to rush about has left her. He leans slightly to view the photo, and realizes it, and all others in the room, are completely still. He sees her, only a few years younger, standing with two people in a park. On her left is a tall black boy, looking the same age as her, with a soft grin and kind eyes. On her right is a girl nearly her height, again around her age, with tan skin and short reddish brown hair. He can see her sigh over the photo, and wonders who these people can be.

"Well, look how the dove flies home." A voice is suddenly heard from the door, and the two blondes jump.

They both turn to see a woman standing in the door, anger and concern mixing on her face. Draco recognizes his Aunt Claire immediately, with her lightly tanned skin and chestnut hair. She is beautiful, like her daughter, but looks nothing like her. She looks aged with worry.

"Do you understand that it's three forty in the morning?" Draco's aunt says, looking past him to his cousin. He turns to her, and her mouth is slightly open, her eyes wide in shock. She is still gripping the picture frame tightly, and Draco guesses that she is nervous, but cannot understand why.

"Your father and I have not seen you since we sent you to that school in your fifth year. Fifth year! And you decide to come home at this hour of the night, take all your stuff and then sneak out?" Claire's voice rises, and her fists curl beneath the long sleeves of her silk bathrobe.

Lyra blinks several times, then closes her mouth, but the surprise is still on her face, clearly not used to her mother yelling. Draco is in shock as well, having always remembered Claire as a very calm, put-together woman.

"What happened to you?" She stares at her daughter, the anger in her voice gone and replaced with sadness and desperation. The tone strikes deep in Draco, and he is reminded painfully of his mother, when the war was almost over, when all she wanted was for the family to be safe and together.

"I'm sorry, Mom." Lyra says at last, in a gentle tone. This is enough for a mother in pain, and she rushes to embrace her only child. She squeezes Lyra tight, but the young woman is hesitant, raising her arms slowly, and barely touching her mother's back when she returns the hug. He looks Lyra in the face, but she avoids his eye contact and stares at the ground, guilt evident on her face.

"It's going to be okay, sweetheart. It'll all be fine. And if you don't mind, I've ignored our company for far too long." Claire says sweetly as she releases her daughter and turns to her nephew. "Draco, it's been too long." She says, and he, too, receives a hug.

"Nice to see you again, Aunt Claire." Draco says, and it would be, had he not seen her again whilst she yelled at her daughter and made them all uncomfortable. He wants to push the thoughts as far from him as he can, and vows not to recall her anger.

She releases him, and plays with his hair for a moment. "I really prefer it this way, Draco, without the gel." She comments, and he blushes slightly.

"Where's dad?" He hears Lyra say behind her, and notices an edge of apprehension in her voice.

"On a business trip, thank God. And he'll want to know all about what you've been doing, and why you're sneaking in and packing all your things. Which I could use an explanation for, too." She says pointedly, and Lyra clears her throat a bit.

"I, uh, got a job, actually. At Hogwarts, so I need to pack my things and live there." Lyra says, moving her weight from one foot to the other. Draco has never seen this elegant young lady so on edge.

"Lyra, honey, that's wonderful news!" Her mother exclaims, but Draco can sense she is not done talking about where her daughter has been, and why she came back trying not to be noticed. "You know what? I'll start on some tea, and then I'll call your father and tell him you're here."

With that, she leaves the room, and Lyra immediately grabs the rest of the frames, and rushes to put them in her bag. She runs to one armoire and rips the clothes off the hangers, stuffing them in the bag as well.

"What are you doing?" Draco asks, watching her rush about the room.

"I don't want to be here when she gets back." Lyra says, grabbing shoes and placing them in the bag.

"Why?" He asks, but she ignores him. "Lyra, what's going on? You can't look your mum in the eye, you're scared of seeing your father, you obviously haven't lived here in ages- stop ignoring me!" He says, annoyed, as she continues to rush. She pauses, finally, and stares at him for a moment, just stares. He stares back, unnerved.

"It's a long story." She says, not breaking eye contact.

"Tell me the short version." Draco responds

"Fine. Sit." She stands up and pulls him to the couch. "Did you see that picture I was holding when Mom came in?"

"Yes." He answers quickly, feeling as though she is in a rush.

"That boy, Clark, we dated." Lyra explains, but Draco just stares at her in confusion. "And after the war ended, he- he went insane."

"What?" Draco says, incredulous.

"We were living in an apartment together, but he was destroyed. He was always drinking, he started doing drugs, he was a mess. He got kicked out, and I- clung to him. A bit pathetically. He became homeless, and so did I." She stands back up, and moves to the second armoire.

"You were homeless?" Draco asks, shock mixing with other feelings he could not quite place. She nods, not looking at him as she resumes her packing. "Until when?"

"Aunt Narcissa sent me a letter." Lyra states simply, and stands to examine the bookshelf.

"So when I saw you again, the night of the trial, just two weeks ago, you were homeless?" Draco questions in disbelief. Lyra doesn't answer, and instead has removed her wand and levitated books into her bag, but Draco knows what she would say.

He is unsure how he feels about this. His main emotion is of course shock, followed by being slightly appalled. These are dirty streets and frightening places, after all, being New York, being all he's heard about it. To think she spent so much time on the streets frightens him, to a point where he is as surprised by her confession as by how much he cares.

Looking up at her and watching her put the last of the books away, Draco knows one thing for certain: he is grateful. He is so, so grateful. Grateful she's safe, grateful he's with her. He loves her. He says nothing, he makes no show of it, but he loves her.

She quickly empties the last dresser, then stands and nods curtly to him before hustling to the fireplace, grabbing some floo powder from a little crystal dish on the mantle.

"Wait, your mum-" Draco says to her, but she ignores him and returns to the manor. He stands for a moment in the very empty room, staring at the empty shelves and listening to his aunt's voice (slightly curious as to how she has managed to communicate with her husband) before following Lyra.

When he exits the fireplace, he sees her walking up the stairs, and calls out to her.

"Why don't you want to talk to your parents?" He asks, and Lyra pauses.

"It's a long story." She finally says, not turning to look at him.

"Tell me the short version." Draco responds patiently.

"Another time." He barely hears her say, her voice soft.

"Lyra." He says, attempting to be kind and understanding, but he goes silent when she turns and faces him. Her face is only sadness. Only regret and remorse and sorrow and heartbreak. She is bereft of joy, as if it was stolen from her, as if it dissipated when they stepped into her former bedroom. He wonders what happened, what she mourned so heavily. The boyfriend, the war, the girl in the picture, their family: so much haunts her, and he knows nothing about it.

She turns slowly, and walks upstairs with heavy steps. He does not call to her again.

* * *

**Thanks for reading thus far! If it's not clear, Lyra was homeless from some time in May to the time they're living in, August.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Finally, I updated! And at last we're in Hogwarts. Hope you all enjoy it.**

* * *

Draco expects the next morning to be horrifically awkward, but it is surprisingly not. Breakfast is had in comfortable silence, and afterwards Lyra retires to her room, needing to prepare for her job. Draco spends his spare time wandering around the manor, packing, and scanning the two books assigned to him by his lovely new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

Several days are spent in this silence, with very few words exchanged other than small talk about food and weather. It almost feels lonely to Draco, yet there is something assuring about Lyra's very presence, as if the girl is his patronus, a warm talisman at his heart.

When Lyra is not in her room, she is in Hogwarts, traveling by floo powder to the castle. Although Draco does not often see her go, he assumes she is moving textbooks and supplies.

Finally, it is the last day of August, and Flicker is busy in the kitchen, preparing a final meal for the Malfoys until their return over Christmas break. Draco, in his room, is washing up, and cannot help but think of his parents. In June, letters were sent to every student whose final year of education was disrupted by the war and its events, requesting a reply as to whether or not they wished to return. Draco's mother had convinced him to complete his studies, despite his uncertainties.

As he descends the stairs, he cannot help but wonder what Hogwarts will be like for him in his final year. The place was rebuilt over the Summer, thanks to an unexpectedly large amount of volunteers, but he knows it will feel different. Foreign, almost. He sits down at the table, listening to Flicker mess around in the kitchen, then thinks of Hogwarts again.

He is a bit excited to be going back, but the predominant emotion in him now is fear. It gnaws upon him, eats away at him inside. He is afraid of what his classmates will say to him, do to him. He fought in a war, on the wrong side. He is not convinced his decision of neutrality redeems that. He abandoned one side, yet did not join the other, meaning he now stands alone in the middle. Utterly alone.

Until she walks down the stairs. Because any feeling of loneliness can be cured by the presence of something so simple and so lovely as the bond of friendship. She looks at him and smiles, and he feels an odd release of tension as he smiles back.

"This is it." She says, looking at the platters that Flicker is beginning to lay out. "Last family dinner until Christmas vacation."

"Let's hope that comes as quickly as possible." Draco snorts, turning away from her.

"Not excited to be going back?" Lyra questions as she takes her seat.

"I am, it's just-" Draco pauses, face full of hesitation. "I was neutral at the end of the war. I abandoned the Dark Lord, but I didn't choose to join the light."

"And you're fearing the repercussions." Lyra finishes, figuring out what he means. He nods, then looks away, avoiding her eyes, for it is so rare that he opens up and discusses his emotions.

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Draco. Besides, if anything happens, I'm right here for you." Lyra says, and Draco still feels worried, but at the same time, so much better. He relaxes slightly in his chair, watching Lyra as she scoops potatoes from one of the many platters.

"Oh, by the way, I'll be going to the castle by floo powder tomorrow, so you don't have to take the train." She adds as he starts to dig in.

"Wonderful." He says casually, but can feel a giant, cooling wave of relief rising inside him, an ocean of calm flowing through his veins. This would reduce the tension greatly. Now he would not have to board a train full of former friends and foes, all with their eyes locked on him.

He shudders at the thought. Going on the train would have been a disaster, especially if he would have had to sit with Pansy or Blaise. He groans inwardly at the thought of them. What would become of his previous alliances? And what of his enemies? What lies before him is only a forest of questions, and he has only one traveler to accompany him through it. Were it not for her, he would be hopeless.

But he has her. And as they sit there, eating their final meal together before entering the deep, dark, abysmal forest of uncertainty, he vows to keep her. He will not lose her to the labyrinth of doubts and misgivings that lay before them.

He awakens early the next day, and he feels as if he's a jumble of nerves, like his brain was rewired as he slept, and everything was put in the wrong order. He is nervous, and excited, and frankly not sure what he ought to feel. After all that has happened, he is haunted by those walls and those memories.

He washes, taking his time. He is not really there, sort of off in his own place. He is thinking of everything, thinking of nothing. His emotions are swirling, and he dully feels as if he's going mad.

He dresses slowly, fingers slipping on his buttons. He can afford to take his time today, he does not have to hop into some ministry car and race to get onto a crowded train. He is silently thankful for the lack of a car ride: the vehicles make him nervous.

When he descends the stairs, he sees Lyra already sitting, looking odd in her teacher's robes. They are dark and depressing compared to her usual casual wear, and Draco finds himself unsettled by her new appearance as he sits across from her.

"We're going to be here a few hours." Lyra tells him as she scans the papers sitting before her. "Then we floo over for the professor's meeting, then everyone else comes in for dinner."

"Right." Draco says, hearing the words but not fully absorbing them. He sees Flicker run over as she usually does, armed with a plate of cucumber sandwiches.

"Flicker, what'll you do when we're not here?" Lyra asks her, and the house elf sets down her tray.

"Flicker will clean, miss, and dust and mop and make the manor shine, and then maybe rest." Flicker says in her quick, light voice.

"Do they do anything else?" Lyra asks him, turning away from the elf.

"No." He responds, worried. "Don't start campaigning for elf rights or something, you'll turn into Hermione Granger, and that's the last thing we want."

She rolls her eyes. "I was just wondering."

He shakes his head, and begins to eat. She chews as she stares at her papers, and Draco notices.

"What are those, the class notes?" He says with a wry grin. She sees it, and shuffles her papers, attempting to hide them from his view.

"No, you're not looking at these, I'm not giving you a head start, that wouldn't be fair." Lyra says, then quickly stands and retreats to her room.

"Oh, come on!" Draco calls after her, smiling.

"Never, you cheater!" He hears her yell back from the stairs, and he almost laughs before remembering what is about to happen. Soon, he will be back at Hogwarts.

The wait is agonizing. He spends hours walking around his home, waiting for the time when he must return to his school. He boredly looks through his things, makes sure he has packed everything, and skims a book quickly, then heads out to the garden to take a final look around. When he would next return, the barely living garden would be fully dead, merely sticks and soil until the heat of Spring returns.

Finally, the sun is low in the sky, and it is time to depart. He stands in front of the fireplace with his trunk, waiting for Lyra to meet him. When she comes down the stairs, she looks slightly nervous, and is holding a large stack of papers.

"Ready?" She asks, and he nods. "Follow me."

She grabs some floo powder and steps into the fireplace, and with a shout of "Defense Against the Dark Arts Quarters, Hogwarts!" she vanishes amidst green flames. Draco waits a moment, then, dragging his trunk with him, walks into the fireplace and copies her words.

Upon stepping out, he is greeted to a room he has never seen before, but he can say with certainty that it is Hogwarts. The walls are stone and the floor worn and wooden, with one window next to the large fireplace, adorned with sweeping purple drapes that match the fixings of the four poster bed in the corner. As he brushes soot from his clothes and observes the area, Lyra watches him, then hums quietly with impatience.

"Leave your suitcase here, I warned the house elves they would need to take it down to your dorm." She says, and Draco finds it odd to hear her American accent in a place that, for him, has always represented the magical population of the United Kingdom only.

"You mean trunk." He responds, his voice slightly bitter in order to hide his trepidation about his return to the school.

"Fine, trunk. Relax, okay?" She sounds a bit tense, worried not for a return but for a start. Without another word, she turns and walks out of the room, leaving Draco to follow her.

The next room they walk into is one Draco has entered several times before, but mostly at its ugliest, when inhabited by an evil bitch with a love of cats and pink and a desire to cover the walls in both. A shiver travels down his spine as he thinks of her, of the awful things that occurred in that office. A small part of him feels shame, embarrassment for what he had done, but he pushes it away, to focus on following the wavy blonde locks already out the door in front of him.

When he is at the doorway, she is already down the stairs, rushing through the classroom that has gone through yet another change with the new teacher. The shelves on the one wall opposing the windows are covered in the books they removed from her bedroom, convincing Draco to think that they are there for more than just reading: they are needed to satisfy the home-sickness of the only American within the castle.

"Where are you going, anyway?" Draco asks as Lyra reaches the doors of the classroom.

"Professor's meeting."

"What about me?" He asks, unsure of what to do with himself.

"Want to come?" She asks, raising her eyebrows.

"To your meeting?" His voice lingers in his uncertainty.

"It's either that or wander the castle alone until everyone else gets here." She answers pointedly, and he considers this. All of the memories in this castle, most of them awful, haunting him on a lonely journey through the halls. No, he would prefer his cousin's company any day over that, even if it is with a few professors.

"Alright, then, let's go." He says with a stiff nod, and she turns and walks out, him a few steps behind, following her to the Great Hall.

The first thing he sees is the ceiling, which mirrors the darkening sky. The sun has already set, but the navy blanket of nightfall has yet to come, and no stars or moon are visible yet. Then, he notices the professors, all sitting and standing in the middle of the hall. Some are on the benches of the Hufflepuff table, others on the Ravenclaw's. A familiar pale face and long dark hair are absent from the gaggle of educators, and Draco feels a moment of loss for his good old friend.

Approaching them, the professors gradually notice Lyra, and they cease their casual conversations, their smiles fading into a look of seriousness. Draco, just a metre behind her, is nervous, but all of the professors give her nods of acceptance and respect, save the tallest one there, who gives his greeting loudly.

"Hello, there, Lyra! How're yeh doin' this evening?" Hagrid booms, and Lyra gives him a nod and a nervous smile, but says nothing. Hagrid notices Draco a second following, and the smile on his face slips a bit. Draco becomes determined not to look at the man, knowing he had patronized him for years, knowing his fellow Death Eaters once forced him to carry a supposedly dead friend from the forest to the crowd of screaming students...

"Well then, now that everyone's here, it's time for the annual meeting." Professor McGonagall's ever-shrewd voice shakes him from his reverie, and he, along with the teachers, turn to face her. "This year, as we all know, we have several changes in staff. Firstly, Professor Trelawny will be teaching all of our divination classes this year-" She hides her distaste. "As Firenze has happily reunited with his herd." Trelawny seems triumphant, while most others are indifferent.

"Furthermore, Rubeus is returning as our magical creatures professor-"

Hagrid blushes as several others nod and murmur encouragement, and Professor Slughorn cries out, "Yes, well done!"

With the smallest of smiles, she continues. "Alfred here will be replacing my role as Transfiguration professor and head of the Gryffindor house."

She makes a hand gesture to an old man, around sixty, who looks calm and intellectual by nature. He smiles and nods, and Draco can tell he is a good wizard, worthy of respect.

"Emile shall be our new Muggle Studies Professor." She moves her hand to a young man to her right, and Draco, after momentarily examining him, looks to the ground, memories of the former Muggle Studies Professors, Burbage and Carrow, stirring in his mind. Emile must be old enough to teach, but looks as though he is still a student, with a chubby, clean-shaven face. He cracks a friendly smile, and Draco cannot help but think his students will soon walk all over him, but in the back of his mind, ponders why he does not recognize someone who must have graduated only a few years ago.

"And, of course, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Lyra." McGonagall, with one last motion of her hand, looks over Lyra with approval, as does the rest of the staff - she is well liked.

"Now, Lyra and Emile - excuse me, Mr. Malfoy, what on Earth are you doing here?" McGonagall's shocked tone rings in the large room, and everyone present, save Lyra, turns and stares at Draco, eyebrows raised in slight surprise.

"I apologize, Headmistress." Lyra says before Draco can even comprehend the situation. "I was in a rush, I thought he was allowed here."

"Oh, that's quite alright, Lyra." McGonagall looks calmer by Lyra's words, and it is clear that in their short time of knowing each other, the elder has quickly grown to trust the younger.

"I'm sorry for any interruption." She says, and Draco is again thankful for her being with him.

"Perfectly alright. Now where was I? Oh, yes, since Lyra was educated in Salem, and Emile in Beauxbatons, they will be sorted after the students."

Everyone turns and nods encouragement to the two young teachers, both of whom seem surprised, but not overly nervous. Draco finds himself giving Lyra a small, reassuring smile (something he is not prone to do), before McGonagall speaks again.

"This is quite extraordinary, you know, no professor has taught here who hasn't been schooled here in over half a century." She says to both of the young professors, before addressing the general company once more. "Now then, the same standard rules apply this year as they always have, even to eighth year students."

She looks sternly at Draco, who quickly nods in respect. He knows he has broken the rules before, his arrogance telling him they did not apply to him, but he worries now of overly strict consequences should he break them again.

"I believe that is all, at least for now. We should take our seats, the students will be arriving at any moment." McGonagall says, then turns and adds to Draco: "Mr. Malfoy, these meetings have occurred annually since the founding of this school, and you are the first student to ever attend. Quite extraordinary."

She leaves him to sit at the large table at the end of the hall, and for a moment, he has an odd feeling in his stomach, something akin to pride, as if he is proud of being a part of the school's history. He attempts to shake that feeling away, his former self telling him that he is better than that place, but the newer, lost and lonely version of him insists that he ought to ignore such arrogance.

"You're extraordinary." Lyra interrupts his internal warring, and he scowls slightly.

"I think she meant it's extraordinary that you so foolishly allowed a student into a sacred meeting. We're lucky she didn't fire you and expel me on the spot." Draco responds, pessimistic.

"You keep telling yourself that, Dra- what is that?" She is distracted by Filch walking past them, carrying a stool upon which a raggedy hat lay.

"The Sorting Hat." Draco responds, giving her an odd look.

"Right, I read about that once. _Hogwarts, A History. _You're all sorted in front of the school."

"How were you sorted at Salem? Were there even houses?" Draco asks, curious.

"There's four, based on yours, but we took a test first year to get in." She says, then looks to the door. "I need to take my seat, the students are going to be here soon."

"Wait, what am I supposed to do, just sit at the Slytherin table and watch everyone walk in?" Draco asks, suddenly panicked and not in the mood to be the center of attention.

"Erm..." She looks around, thinking quickly for a solution. "Okay, go to the main entrance, find an empty classroom. Hide out until everyone walks in, then just blend in with the crowd."

"Perfect." He says in a slight rush. "Good luck."

As he walks away rather swiftly, he can hear her call out "You too!" and is, again, so thankful she is with him. When was the last time anyone ever wished him good luck, besides his mum?

It is his mother he thinks of as he finds an empty classroom to stand in. He wonders idly if she is aware of the date, if she is proud of her son for completing his education. He hopes she is, and is determined to work hard this year to make her so.

He does not have long to think, however, for soon, he hears the large doors open, and dozens upon dozens of students walking in. They are all jubilant as usual, delighted to return to the newly repaired castle. As he hears them talking about the professors, anticipating the feast, and singing the school's anthem, he waits patiently for them to pass.

He peaks out a little space in the door, and seeing only a few stragglers left, opens the door slowly and joins them walking in. He is certain they can see him, and are probably judging him and his very presence, but he stares ahead, wearing his face blank like a mask.

When they pile into the Great Hall, just as golden and beautiful as always, Draco quickly finds himself a seat at the end of the Slytherin table, staring down at the empty plate in front of him in order to avoid seeing whether or not his fellow Slytherins want to communicate with him. The table is more empty than usual, a byproduct of the arrests of so many Death Eaters - kids were pulled from their schooling by large amounts, many becoming home schooled or sent away to Durmstrang's in protest. Draco is unsure of which place he would prefer to be, but at the moment, he gladly takes the one which holds his oldest friend.

He assumes he will end up sitting totally alone, until the very last student enters, and sits across from him. It is Theodore Nott, silently avoiding his and everyone else's eye. He was always a quiet boy, preferring to work alone, and he is an outcast ever since his father, a loyal Death Eater, died in the war he refused to be a part of.

His musing ends when a large amount of first years enter the room, all looking short and nervous, which is odd to Draco, because he recalls being neither. Really, their lowering height is getting ridiculous.

"Students, settle down, it is time for our annual sorting!" McGonagall yells out, and there is a silence as everyone turns and stares at the raggedy old hat sitting on a wobbly stool in front of them all. For a moment, there is no motion, then a large seam rips through the hat, and it begins to sing.

"Oh, as we all recall,

Last year we had a ball

Defeating the darkest of Lords.

With Gryffindor's mighty sword

And the wisdom of Ravenclaw

We were able to save the day.

And let's not forget dear Hufflepuff,

Always loyal fighters,

And those of Slytherin

Who sided with the light.

Now it's a new year,

So leave mistakes behind.

Take away our hatred,

Erase it from your mind.

This is the time for unity,

It can be our golden age,

Just stay together and remember

This school is too great

For civil war and hate."

The Great Hall roars with applause, and Draco notes that despite the small amount of Slytherins, the clapping is louder than any other year he had been at that table. They seem happy that the Sorting Hat recommends the students forget past mistakes. Draco, too, hopes for that to be the case.

The students are sorted as they usually are, with about equal amounts heading to their respective tables. Finally, as the last student takes his seat, McGonagall stands, prepared to make the annual small speech before the feast. Every student becomes instantly silent, all with a look of hunger in their eyes. Draco, too, is starving, having not eaten since noon.

"Good evening, everyone." McGonagall stared them all down sternly. "Despite the obvious trials of the previous years, the rules this year are the same as every year. The Forbidden Forest is, of course, forbidden-" several students stifle a laugh.

"We have three new professors to welcome this year." McGonagall begins. "Professor Alwin will be taking over the Transfiguration position."

There is applause as the elder man stands, bows slightly, and sits back down.

"Professor Fidéle is our new Muggle Studies teacher." She says, and the younger professor stands as well, gives everyone a nervous half-wave, and takes his seat.

"And finally, Professor Malfoy will be taking the role as our Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor." McGonagall announces, and Draco expects a dead silence, but instead, the crowd erupts into the loudest applause yet.

Lyra stands and smiles politely, and the crowd cheers further. Draco looks around, and sees the Gryffindor table being the loudest, although he does not know why. They seem absolutely delighted by her presence, and his confusion sets further into his bones. Are they mocking her? He could imagine the Gryffindor students doing such a thing, but not the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw students, who were clapping almost as loudly.

He saw people turning and glancing at him, and while he does not look over at his fellow Slytherins, fearing their stares and what those stares would be saying, he sees looks from the other tables that include - of all things - smiles, and nods of approval. What the hell? There is something Lyra is not telling him, some reason everyone but the Slytherins seem to love her.

"Now, now." McGonagall silences them as Lyra sits. "Because two of our new teachers were not schooled at Hogwarts, as a welcoming gesture, they will be sorted now. First, Professor Fidéle, from Beauxbatons."

There is a silence as Fidéle walks up to the stool, and the hat is placed on his head. After a short moment, he is declared a Hufflepuff, and the students applaud as he takes his seat back at the professor's table.

"Professor Malfoy, from the Salem Witch's Institute." Lyra stands and walks to the stool, then sits, with the hat on her head, for a very long moment. After over a full minute of silence, the Sorting Hat, with a shout, declares her a Ravenclaw. Draco applauds lightly with the rest of the crowd as she returns to her seat. Ravenclaw seems fitting, and she is certainly no Slytherin. He is proud of her, quite so, even if much of this pride stems from her not being a Hufflepuff.

The feast appears, and they all dig in, starved after the long day. Draco engorges himself with pumpkin juice and Shepherd's pie, having a silent meal with a man he does not look at. The only time his eyes leave his plate is when he checks on Lyra, who, along with Fidéle, is poking her food with her fork in silent confusion over what she is eating, which causes Draco to almost chuckle to himself. He does chuckle, quietly, when he sees her give up and ask Hagrid, sitting next to her, about the food, pointing to it and making a revolted face as he explains what she is eating.

After the feast, they are all exhausted, and are lead by their prefects back to their dormitories. Draco, tightly packed into a crowd of tired Slytherins, is lulled into a slight sense of security by his large amounts of food as he travels down to the dungeons, but not enough that he is not apprehensive.

Blaise, one of the Slytherin prefects, leads them to the dungeon, telling them the password ("wolfsbane"), and letting them in. Draco feels a painful nostalgia as he looks around the dark room and ascends the stairs to the dorm rooms. He walks into his dorm room, seeing his familiar bed, and his trunk next to it, as Lyra promised. He looks around, expecting the other men to attack him for his very existence, but they ignore him completely as they prepare for bed. He does the same, and there is some sort of loneliness in it, but his exhaustion hides it.

He is asleep almost the moment his head hits his pillow, which is something to be thankful for, as now he cannot hear the whispers of his former allies fill the room.


End file.
